• Covert Operation Calico by L. Lisa Lawrence

    The story you are about to hear is true. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent. Since no one was actually innocent, I didn’t bother. There are friends you call in the dark of the night, when you need someone to help move furniture. That was my friend Houston S Wimberly the Third. There are friends you call in the dark of the night, when you need to move a body… Apparently, that would be me. To continue reading Covert Operation Calico click here.

  • The Golden Eagle Casino by Alec Clayton

    Eyes turn their way when Pop and Melissa glide into the Golden Eagle Casino. Dressed in a style she laughingly calls slutty-chic, Melissa looks like some kind of sexy film noir vamp. She wears a black fedora with a red silk band. The wide brim is tipped forward to cast a shadowed veil across her dark eyes. Her hair is not truly black but dark, dark brown tinted with Venetian highlights. It flows like oil across naked shoulders. Her black gown sparkles with red glitter that matches the rich red highlights in her hair. Men stare in anticipation as her breasts threaten to pop out and her long thighs scissor…

  • She Thinks by Nick Stokes

    Nothing. There is nothing there. Footsteps on the porch. Her own? She is inside, within, she’s sure, at least most of her. Should she shoot? It’s a moral question. She sees darkness, which implies absence of light, which is not what she thinks she sees until she’s thought it. Can one shoot one’s footsteps if one is inside and one’s footsteps are outside? It’s a question of morality. Can she smell herself? Yes, she thinks. She does not think the stink; the stink is free of her. Of her. Emanated, she wishes she hadn’t thought. The stink is material evidence of her presence. She can imagine she imagines the footsteps;…

  • The Visitor by Angela Jossy

    I know its a cliche but let me start by saying: Don’t freak out. Sorry to wake you. Yes, I am in fact a ghost but let me assure you, I’m not a murderous ghost. Sure, I can kill with impunity but, ya know, it gets old. Human lives come and go so quickly anyway. What’s the point really? The reason I am appearing in front of you today is I wanted to ask you for a favor. As favors go, this ones a doozy. Do people still say doozy? Nevermind. Don’t answer that. Like snuffing people out for entertainment, following the lexicon of the modern American vernacular has also…

  • Augie by Jack Cameron

    “This is a great apartment…” There was a pause after he said it. Augie was fairly certain the boy could not remember his name. Augie didn’t mind. He wasn’t sure of the boy’s name either. Tony, Troy, something with a ‘T’. He watched from the bed as the boy walked around his apartment. The boy had his shirt off. Augie was enjoying the view. This boy was probably half Augie’s age with skin so white it looked like milk. He had that farm-boy-in-the-city look to him. Augie wondered how many times the boy had done this sort of thing. The boy picked up a framed photo from the dresser. Augie…

  • Take Hold by Kim Thompson

    I am tired of stupid death rules. At my age, I want to shatter them; because in the business of death, I am considered young (and angry) at age 45. I’m ready to roll up my sleeves and fight back, full well knowing I will lose and then grow old enough to accept it and then I’ll be all done. Sigh. To Read more of Take Hold by Kim Thompson click here.

  • This Old House~a poem by L. Lisa Lawrence

    This old house has stood for nearly 100 years It was occupied by Italian immigrants in 1917 It housed families during the great depression It has seen troops return from two world wars This old house was built from the forests of the Pacific Northwest Its beams are thick and sturdy Its floors are old growth Douglas Fir Its roof grows moss if not well maintained To Read more of This Old House by L. Lisa Lawrence click here.

  • Janie’s Got a Car by Karen Harris Tully

    I squinted, scowling into my rearview mirror at the guy behind me next to the Suburban, threw my arm over the passenger seat of my new-to-me, late model Sentra, and looked over my shoulder, my foot hovering over the accelerator.  The shrinks had given me the labels of depression, anxiety, PTSD, survivor’s guilt… sex addict… it just depended on which one you talked to.  None of them however, had tagged me as homicidal.  Boy, somebody had sure missed something. 5 months earlier- “Come on, Janie, hurry it up!  Ash will be here any minute!” Terrell said as he parked his vintage Trans-Am and turned off the Talking Heads along with…

  • Ostrich by Dan Rahe

    In 1990, my father bought four ostriches — two breeding pairs. We lived on an old dairy farm, and dad and I had retrofitted the barns and pastures, which were perfectly adequate for habitation by placid bovines, to make them suitable for giant, speedy African avians. Ostrich farming was something of a fad in the late 1980’s and early 1990’s, and many enterprising farmers had made a small fortune from hide and meat sales. My dad, being the kind of person who suspects the path to success is cleverly hidden, studied ostrich husbandry with zeal, and eventually arranged to have some delivered to our Minnesota farmstead. The four ostriches who…

  • It Was an Opossum by Christopher A. Clark

    “Daddy, where’s Fluffy? Daddy, wake up. I can’t find him. Have you seen him?” Dan groaned when his curly haired daughter Rebecca woke him by whacking his forehead. He also dreaded the question she repeated while crawling onto his back. Two days ago, Fluffy sneaked out the patio door when Dan exited to put the burgers on the grill. It wasn’t the first time the cat ran out so Dan merely cursed and knew they’d have to put out a can of tuna—the only thing that drew him back inside. “Daddy, wake up,” she said, now placing her mouth on his ear to make sure he heard her. “I’m awake,”…